Chapter 10: The Bargain
The linoleum was cold under Isabella’s bare feet as she set the laptop down with a soft thud. Light from the waning day, coming earlier and earlier, slanted through the half-open blinds, stretching shadows across the chipped countertops. The kitchen felt too quiet without the usual chaos of dinner. But Marco was at the gym, and Sofia at cheerleader practice. With Tony sulking downstairs, that left her with just the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of a neighbor’s dog barking.
Her fingers hovered over the power button, the weight of what she was about to do pressing against her ribs. Deleting the videos was the right thing—the moral thing. But morality didn’t pay the bills.
She flipped the laptop open. The screen flared to life, casting a blue glow over her face. Tony’s desktop was a disaster—folders stacked on folders, icons scattered like confetti. She exhaled through her nose. Of course.
Navigating to the security footage folder, her pulse kicked up. Hundreds of files. Hundreds of moments. She clicked the first one.
Grainy footage filled the screen—her younger self, barely twenty, dusting the living room shelves with quick, efficient strokes. The sight of her own past self, so unaware of what was coming, made her throat tighten.
Another click. Marco, twelve years old, bouncing a basketball in the driveway, missing every shot but grinning anyway. Another. Sofia at fifteen, practicing cheer routines in the backyard, her face screwed up in fierce concentration.
Then—Donna.
Isabella’s breath hitched. The footage was crisp, clear. Donna in the master bedroom, phone pressed to her ear, face twisted in anger. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” she hissed. “I’m not stupid.”
Another file. Donna at a dimly lit bar, leaning into a man who wasn’t her husband, her fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass.
Isabella’s fingers stilled. A slow, sharp smile curved her lips. She snapped the laptop shut.
The sound echoed in the quiet kitchen, sharp as a gunshot. Footsteps shuffled on the basement stairs—slow, hesitant, like someone dragging themselves to an execution.
Tony emerged, shoulders hunched, his dark hair sticking up in every direction. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His fingers twitched at his sides, restless, like he was missing the weight of the keyboard under them.
Isabella leaned against the counter, arms crossed. The laptop sat between them like a bomb. "Are you alright?" she asked.
He didn’t answer. Just trudged to the fridge and yanked it open, the light spilling across his face. The shelves were still full of Donna's gift—lunch meats, packaged meals, even drinks catered to each family member. He grabbed a can of his favorite soda and cracked it open. The hiss of carbonation filled the silence.
"Tony," she tried again. She uncrossed her arms to pick at her long skirt which had bunched around her waist. Her fingers plucked at the fabric, acutely aware of the sensitive area she was releasing it from.
"What?" His voice was rough, defensive. He took a long drink, the can denting slightly under his grip.
She exhaled through her nose. "We need to talk."
"About what?" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You made it pretty clear how you feel."
She pushed off the counter. "I was angry. But I get it—fantasies are just fantasies." The lie tasted bitter.
Tony’s eyes flicked to the laptop, then away. "Doesn’t matter now."
"It does." She stepped closer. "Because I’m not deleting them."
That got his attention. His head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "Why?"
"Because they’re useful." She tapped the laptop lid. "Not just for you."
He set the can down too hard. Liquid sloshed over the rim. "I don't understand. There's more than just the maid?"
She kept her voice low. "Donna’s in some of these. A lot of them."
Tony went still. "I never looked for anything other than the maid videos." He said with mouth agape. His brows furrowed, as if disappointed in himself.
"I need you to go through every file," she said as she arrived next to him. "Find anything—anything—that could screw her over." Her hip bumped into his.
His throat worked. "You’re serious."
"Dead serious." She lifted her chin, looking down at him to drive her point home.
Tony stared at her, something shifting behind his eyes. Then, slowly, he reached for the laptop. His fingers brushed the edge. "And if I do?"
Isabella smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. "Then you keep your videos."
He swallowed. The laptop clicked open. The screen lit up his face in pale blue. He smiled as he caressed the keys, the mouse, moving it toward a video he kept on his laptop for quick access. "Okay."
Tony's fingers gently closed the laptop, his eyes never leaving hers. "But I'm doing this for the maid. Not for you."
Isabella's stomach twisted. She watched him cradle the laptop like it was something precious, his knuckles white where they gripped the edges. The basement door creaked open, then shut behind him with a finality that made her flinch.
The kitchen smelled like Donna's imported coffee—too bitter, too expensive. Isabella dumped the half-full pot down the sink, watching the dark liquid swirl down the drain.
She was still standing there when the front door banged open. Marco's gym bag hit the tile with a thud, his sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. "Smells like someone died in here," he said, tossing his keys on the counter.
Isabella forced a laugh. "Just Donna's coffee."
"Donna's hot coffee." Marco chuckled as he grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. He flexed his biceps under his damp t-shirt. As he took a long swig, his throat worked. "Where's Tony?"
"Basement." Isabella spoke the word too sharply.
Marco's eyebrows lifted. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You two fighting again?"
"No." She turned back to the sink, scrubbing at an invisible stain. "He's just... working on something."
The faucet hissed. Marco moved closer, his heat radiating against her back. "By the look on your face, it had something to do with Donna."
He leaned against the counter beside her, close enough that she could smell the salt on his skin. "You gonna tell me what's really going on?"
The doorbell rang.
Sofia's voice carried through the screen door before Isabella could answer. "Mom! Marco! I need help with my bag!"
Marco pushed off the counter, his shoulder brushing Isabella's as he passed. She exhaled, slow and shaky.
Sofia stood on the porch, her cheerleading duffel slung over one shoulder, her face flushed from practice. "God, it's like a sauna out there," she groaned, kicking off her sneakers.
Marco took the bag from her, his fingers lingering a second too long on the strap. "You're late."
"Coach kept us overtime." Sofia flopped onto the couch, her ponytail fanning across the cushions. "Ugh, I'm starving. What's for dinner?"
Isabella wiped her hands on a dish towel. "I haven't started yet."
Sofia sat up, frowning. "Why not? It's like, seven."
Marco tossed Sofia's bag onto the chair. "Your mom's been busy."
Sofia's eyes met Marco as she sat back again, spreading her legs, a hint of the navy-blue team colors peaking from under her white cheerleader skirt. "With what?" She asked with a knowing smile.
Marco let out a heavy sigh as he looked away. Whether he snubbed her on purpose or out of ignorance, Sofia couldn't tell.
The basement door creaked open. Tony's footsteps thudded up the stairs, slow and deliberate. He paused in the doorway, his face lit blue from the laptop screen still glowing in his hands.
"Found something," he said. His voice was flat, but his fingers trembled.
Isabella's pulse jumped. "What?"
Tony set the laptop on the table. The video played on a loop—Donna in Marco's bedroom, running her hands over his football jersey. She lifted it to her face, inhaling deeply, her eyes fluttering shut.
The timestamp read two days before the funeral.
Sofia made a small, choked noise. Marco went very still.
"Told you I'd find something." His voice was flat, but his fingers twitched against the laptop's edge. The screen cast jagged shadows across his face, making his smirk look sharper than it was.
Sofia recoiled like she'd been slapped. "Oh my god." Her voice cracked. "She was in your room, in dad's house?" She turned to Marco, eyes wide. "Did you know about this?"
Marco didn't blink. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening. "Turn it off." The words came out low, measured, like he was holding onto control by a thread.
Tony tapped the spacebar, freezing the footage. "Why?" He turned to Marco, his voice lifted. "This is leverage, on Donna. We can negotiate with this." His eyes darted between Marco and Isabella. Tony placed his hands on his hips. His face contorted in exasperation, as his attempt to gain praise failed to find purchase.
"It's not that simple, Tony," Isabella interjected, her voice strained with the effort of keeping calm. She shot a warning glance at Marco, whose veins in his forearms stood out like ropes under his tanned skin.
Sofia scoffed, tossing her auburn ponytail over one shoulder. "What context could there possibly be?" She jabbed a finger at the frozen image of Donna clutching Marco's jersey. "She's practically humping his jersey like some desperate groupie."
Isabella's hand shot out, a lone finger aimed directly at Sofia. "Watch your mouth," she snapped, then immediately softened her stance when she saw Sofia's startled expression. Turning back to Tony, she forced her voice level. "Did you find anything else? Anything that gives us a clearer picture?"
Tony scrolled impatiently, the video files blurring past. "There's more. Lots more." He paused on a grainy hospital room scene - Donna leaning over their father's bed, her lips moving rapidly in what looked like an angry tirade. "But it's all... like this. Snippets. No context."
Marco finally spoke, his voice so low it vibrated in his chest. "What was she saying?"
Tony shrugged, tapping the mute icon. "Couldn't hear. No audio on any of these."
Isabella stepped between them, her palms pressing against Marco's chest as if she could physically hold back his rage. "We need to be careful, Tony," she said, her eyes never leaving Marco's. "We can't jump to conclusions." She swallowed hard. "We don't know what was going on."
Marco's laugh was sharp enough to cut glass. "I know exactly what it looks like."
"What it looks like," Isabella challenged, her voice dropping to a whisper only he could hear, "or what you want it to look like?" Her fingers curled slightly against his shirt, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath.
Sofia threw her hands up. "Oh, come on, Mom! Are you seriously defending her?" The kitchen light caught the angry flush spreading across her cheeks.
Isabella dragged a hand through her hair, leaving dark strands sticking up in her wake. "I'm not defending her, Sofia." She turned back to Tony, her voice firm. "Keep looking. Find something concrete. Something we can actually use."
Isabella grabbed Marco's arm, her nails biting slightly through his damp workout shirt. "We need to talk. In private."
Marco didn't budge, his gaze locked on the laptop screen where Donna's frozen smirk seemed to mock them all. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Yes," Isabella insisted, yanking him toward the hallway with surprising strength, "there is." The door swung shut behind them, muffling Sofia's indignant "What the hell?"
In the dim living room, Marco whirled on her. "That was close, Isabella, mom." His voice cracked like a whip.
"How could defending Donna like you did not raise their suspicions?" Marco's voice was a low growl in the dim hallway, his fingers flexing at his sides. The scent of his post-workout sweat mixed with the faint floral detergent from his shirt, creating an unsettlingly intimate aroma in the confined space.
Isabella crossed her arms, her nails digging into her own biceps through the thin fabric of her blouse. "I wasn't defending her," she hissed, glancing toward the kitchen where Sofia's indignant voice still carried. "I was trying to keep Sofia from spiraling." She swallowed hard, the words tasting like betrayal even as she said them. "She's already got a crush on you."
Marco's eyebrows shot up, his mouth quirking in a way that made Isabella's stomach twist. "Sofia?" His laugh was too loud, too forced. "A crush on me?" He ran a hand through his damp hair, the muscles in his forearm flexing. "She's like a little sister."
The lie hung between them, thick and obvious. Isabella stepped closer, close enough to see the faint stubble darkening his jaw. "She's nineteen, Marco." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And she's not blind." She gestured vaguely at his broad shoulders, the way his t-shirt clung to his chest. "You're attractive, athletic, and suddenly single." Her lips curled. "Don't pretend you haven't noticed."
Marco's gaze flicked past her toward the kitchen where Sofia's laughter rang out—high-pitched, nervous. He shrugged, but the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips told her everything. "Okay, maybe I've noticed." His voice was rough. "But it doesn't matter. I'm not interested."
Isabella's fingers twitched with the urge to slap the smug look off his face. Instead, she closed the distance between them, her hip brushing against the hallway table, rattling the framed photos. "It does matter," she breathed, the words barely audible. "Because if you start something with Donna, it's going to destroy Sofia." She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze head-on. "And I won't let that happen."
Marco's expression darkened. He turned fully toward her, his body blocking the dim light from the kitchen, casting her in shadow. "So, what?" His breath was warm against her cheek. "You're telling me I can't date Donna now?" His lips curled into a smirk. "Because your daughter has a crush on me?"
The taunt hung in the air between them. Isabella's pulse pounded in her ears, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. "Yes, Marco." She forced the words out through gritted teeth. "That's exactly what I'm saying." The photo frames trembled as she leaned in. "Not now. Not ever."
Marco's laugh was soft, dangerous. A slow smile spread across his face, the kind that made the fine hairs on Isabella's arms stand on end. "I'm sorry, Isabella," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her mouth. "But I can't promise you that."
The words landed like a punch to the gut. Isabella recoiled, her back hitting the wall with a soft thud. "What do you mean?" Her voice came out strangled, barely recognizable.
Marco stepped closer, his knee brushing against her thigh. "I mean," he said, his voice dropping to a husky murmur, "that dating Donna might be exactly what I need right now." His fingers traced the curve of her cheek, feather-light, sending an unwanted shiver down her spine. "And maybe," he added, his eyes locking with hers, "it's exactly what you need too."
Isabella jerked away as if burned, her skin prickling where he'd touched her. "You're disgusting," she spat, her voice trembling with barely contained rage. The hallway seemed to shrink around them, the air thick with the scent of his cologne and her own rising panic. "You're using her. You're using all of us."
Marco shrugged, unfazed, his fingers tapping a lazy rhythm against his thigh. "Maybe." His gaze flicked toward the kitchen where Tony's muffled voice could be heard arguing with Sofia. "But you're using Tony, too, aren't you?" His smile turned sharp. "To get dirt on Donna." He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "And let's be honest, Isabella," he murmured, "you're a little bit aroused by the idea of me and Donna together. Aren't you?"
The slap rang out like a gunshot in the confined space. Isabella's palm stung from the impact, her fingers trembling where they hovered in the air between them. Marco's head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming across his cheek. "Get out," she hissed, her voice shaking. "Get out of my house."
Marco chuckled, rubbing his cheek with the back of his hand. The sound sent a fresh wave of fury through her. "Not yet, Isabella." He straightened, rolling his shoulders like a boxer stepping into the ring. "I'm just getting started." He turned toward the kitchen, pausing in the doorway to glance back at her, his eyes gleaming with something dark and unreadable. "And don't worry about Sofia," he added, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "I'm sure she'll get over it." His gaze raked over her from head to toe. "Besides, maybe she can join my harem."
The words hit like a physical blow. Isabella stood frozen, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as Marco sauntered away, his footsteps echoing through the house. The weight of his threat pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating. Somewhere in the kitchen, Sofia laughed—bright, oblivious.
Isabella's fingers dug into the wall behind her, the textured paint rough against her skin. She had made a mistake. A big one. She had underestimated Marco.
And now, she was going to pay the price.